


A Typical Day on the Third Floor

by hurinhouse



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Pre-Series, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's choices are limited, but he does have them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Typical Day on the Third Floor

_If you throw me from the window,_  
I will leave a grieving wife.  
Bring me back, but in the door, and  
You'll see someone giving life. 

He'd call this riddle moderate. Of course, he hasn't solved the damned thing yet, but he has time. A couple of hours at the least before Peter returns. The door downstairs closed hours ago but he can still smell the sweet lime scent of the shaving gel Elizabeth loves to use on him. He's not fond of getting up so early for a shave only two other people will see, but El prefers stubble by bedtime and he's not allowed a razor after they've left for work.

As he contemplates Peter's daily brain-teaser he thinks of a final touch for the abstract he's working on and he glides through to his studio. His toes sink into the thick soft carpet as he taps a button on the remote, switching from The Fray to Miles Davis. The muse is fickle today. His chain catches on the easel, almost tripping him. He backs up to unhook it, letting the velvet-covered slack hang behind his back, the plush ankle cuff sliding back into place beneath his linen pants. He swivels his work toward the light and looks out. Mrs. Lawson is on her porch swing far below. It would be so easy to call down for help. But a shout out would bring the police. That’s the last thing he needs. 

The chain's top link is welded shut round the ceiling cable that runs through the entire third level of the Burke Household. It took Neal a week of intense prodding before he resigned that there are no mars in the smooth custom metal ceiling to use as leverage, and that the titanium cable is too strong to be pulled free. The sprinkler system they'd installed is designed without any protrusions to use to his advantage. Even his easel is one piece of solid metal. No escape routes yet. But he’ll figure it out eventually.

He downs his afternoon 16 oz. to keep hydrated. No internet. No phone. Moz has no idea where he is and he hasn't seen Kate since he left with Alex for Copenhagen. But… 

Imported wines, breakfast in bed, his daily choice of gourmet dinner. Hard to get brushes and pastels. 100 percent Egyptian sateen over a pillow-top. Pandora, the New York Times, 230 HD channels. Floor to ceiling shower jets and two wall-length book shelves lined with his requests. 

Each night he gets to go downstairs, to cook or to sculpt or tend the garden he's been allowed to grow. To use the treadmill and the free weights. All supervised, of course.

And each night, if he wants, he is pampered within an inch of his life. Tonight he wants. 

* * * * 

Elizabeth twists her hips slightly as she sinks down again and he gasps, his cock straining to push up higher. "Mmmm, that's good, Baby." He doesn't expect her voice so close to his ear - he's farther gone than he'd thought. 

"Lift up, Hon." 

She does as asked, pulling off of Neal, and he groans at the loss. But Peter grasps his thighs and tugs him to the foot of the bed, pulling the scarves around his wrists taut. No cuff for his ankle when they're home. No chain to get in the way. 

His ass tips at the edge of the bed and Peter kneels down, runs fingertips across smooth round muscle, inching toward the center. Neal's hips slam back up when Peter's tongue joins the game. Little kitten licks start it off, maddening, sweet, barely there, driving Neal's hips to twitch even though he thinks he can hold his ground this time. But soon he swipes wicked glorious pulses into Neal for long aching moments, stealing his control and any wit he had left until Neal can barely breath and he chokes out, "N! N, n, n! It's the letter N! God, please just… " 

Elizabeth laughs at the riddle answer but he knows he's right. "Wait, let me get back on," she insists and then Peter's slick fingers replace his tongue. Neal's brain plummets to mush, worshipping the delight that is lube.

Apparently Elizabeth learned the finer points of a tape measure when planning the third floor, Neal's floor. The carpenter must have sent some odd looks her way but calculating the height of the mattress to match Peter's hips was genius. The calluses on Peter's hand caress Neal's belly before he pushes himself into Neal, inch by sinful inch. Elizabeth's lips are a warm soft promise, whispering "I love you" into his mouth. He opens his eyes to see the sentiment echoed in Peter's face… the question, the hope. _Is this still your choice?_

Is it? 

They've given him anything he could ever want. Except the one thing that keeps him alive: people. He misses weaving in and out of them through midday markets. Watching from park benches and restaurant booths. Chatting up baristas, tellers, vendors at the book store. The challenge of deciphering a mark's code without actually seeing it, lifting wallets and returning them sans cash, the heady rush of standing before the frames at the Met while security guards check tourists’ camera bags.

Is this still his choice? When Peter had caught him in a parking garage five months ago, the choice had scared him as much as it intrigued him. 

_"Agent Burke, it's been too long." He'd rattled the cuffs, a different set on each wrist, held away from each other. Peter had read him well even then._

_"They'll give you a minimum of four years for the bonds, Caffrey."_

_"Then why aren't you calling for backup?"_

_Peter had run a hand over his face, a heavy exhale, and plunged in, "My wife dreams about you. I can offer you something better than a supermax."_

Neal remembers seeing the bulge below the agent's belt, gun and badge resting on the hood, him watching Neal weigh his options. It had seemed such an easy call to make at the time, a simple escape almost guaranteed. Five months ago.

Can he do this for three and a half more years? Can he live without salmon en Croute or Tiramisu? No Paul Smith, no piano? 

No more Elizabeth. Or Peter. 

But he'd be able to move, and charm. In an orange jumpsuit, within gray stone walls.

He looks back up at Peter, beckoning him with his eyes. El tilts to the side as Peter leans over her, takes Neal's mouth with his own, pouring into Neal the passion he'd collected over the years of chasing him, studying him. It makes Neal dizzy and he decides that he still wants to believe this beautiful lie. Peter pulls back, hips stilled, waiting for Neal's answer. 

_Yes._


End file.
